Not Real
by Miss Maia
Summary: He always comes back. Sometimes I think we're safe, but he's always back. And always angry. When I hear the maniacal, sickening scream, I know he's here. I can't think about anything else besides protecting Peeta. Angst. Drama. A post-mockingjay story where Katniss and Peeta need to struggle to survive for what is left of human in them.


**Author's Note: **Written for the piece-in-their-games awards, Drama.

**Warning: **Violence.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the _Hunger Games_ trilogy; this is just an attempt at fun by playing with someone else's toys.

**Summary: ** He always comes back. Sometimes I think we're safe, but _he's _always back. And always angry. When I hear the maniacal, sickening scream, I know he's here. I can't think about anything else besides protecting Peeta. Angst. Drama. A post-mockingjay story where Katniss and Peeta need to struggle to survive for what is left of human in them.

* * *

**Not Real**

The ferric smell of blood fills my nose as I clean the fresh kill. Using the back of my hand, I move a stray piece of hair from my forehead, one of the many that escaped from my braid while I was hunting. My hands are sticky with hot blood, but I am used to this; I hope Peeta wakes up soon and we can share a bath.

It's the end of autumn and the orange leaves are disappearing from the trees, falling to the ground in random patterns. Game is getting scarce in the woods, and soon there will be nothing out there to distract me from my thoughts each morning. Peeta has his baking, but I dread the days when I'll have to stay at home with my fears and ghosts in the cold mornings.

It's our third winter after the war, and our lives are coming back to normal piece by piece—Peeta bakes, I hunt. We share a bed and protect each other from our nightmares, our fears … and _him_.

Just the thought of him makes my hands tremble, but I tighten my grip around the knife handle. We survived the Hunger Games; we will survive to this.

I hum along with the sound of the wind spiraling the dead leaves, my blade digging into the rosy flesh of the rabbit. Our backyard is quiet, just the occasional bird's chirp following my simple melody. It calms me, relaxes me somehow. Maybe today will be a good day.

I'm chopping the rabbit's head off when I hear the scream.

A cold, mortifying shiver runs my spine. My throat closes, and it's hard to breathe. The sound of the carcass and the knife hitting the ground vaguely registers as my trembling body forces itself to stand.

No, I think futilely. Not_ him._

I know this voice. I know what it means. And I know I need to protect Peeta.

My heart is pounding in my chest, and I try to take a deep breath before opening the back door. The thick air makes me nauseous, and I'm aware of the bloodstain on the doorknob—if I'm not careful, that's not the only blood I'll see today.

"Katnissss …"

His maniacal, horrible and sickening voice resounds in the house. The eerie sound evokes memories of mutts in the Capitol's underground, though now Peeta is not here to comfort me … Peeta! I need to get to him before he gets hurt!

Booming steps turn my head upward—he's inside the house. I don't know if that's good or bad.

"Where are you, Katniss?" I muffle a sob at his hoarse voice. He's angry … always angry, like his rage is consuming his thoughts.

I try to be silent as I head to the study room, hiding any object he might throw at me on my way. Part of me wants to confront him, but I need to protect Peeta; one of my worst nightmares is of him hurting Peeta. I don't even leave the bed when the image of Peeta's dead body haunts my dreams.

I can tell he's seething in fury by the way he stumbles down the stairs. I'm weak and ashamed when I cower behind the wooden door. I know what he'll do to Peeta if I don't show up … I bite my lip hard not to cry, but the stubborn tears insist on falling. I'm afraid. Terrified, actually.

But Peeta is alone and he needs me; I need to at least pretend to be strong.

His heavy breathing is echoing in the kitchen, the cabinets being tossed to the floor. He's calling me, and I'm paralyzed to respond.

An anguished yelp threatens to flee my mouth, and I cover it with my bloody hand, but a whimper escapes when the second dry thud resounds.

He screams, he cries, and then, worst of all: he laughs.

"Katniss!" he calls again, his loaded voice confirming my fears. In my mind I can perfectly see the blood dripping from his lips and nose, his once white teeth red with stains while he again hits his scarred face on the marble counter. "Come here, you mutt!" The phrase comes out through spitting blood, and I just know it. I need to get to him.

With trembling legs, I step out of the study room, my feet quiet in the dark corridor. I startle at the sound of the back door slamming, his pleas now coming from the backyard.

During these moments I wonder if Peeta and I can make it. If we really can live like this or if a calm, quick death would be the best way to go. I curse quietly at those thoughts because I can't give up everything now. Not when so many died. I owe a debt to those souls to try to live with purpose.

The kitchen door slams again, and I hold my breath. He's inside, and I can hear his labored sigh. I can't hide anymore so I march resolutely to the kitchen.

One of his hands is supporting his body against the counter, his head down. For a moment, I think he might be better, but he turns his deep black eyes at me when he hears my steps.

His bloody smile turns my stomach, though I don't dare avert my eyes. I keep them firm against his blackness, silently telling him I won't run away. There's a cut on his left cheek and bruises on his face and arms. My fears are confirmed when I see the counter he's lying against shining with fresh blood. When he walks in my direction I feel relieved that his nose is not broken—it required a complicated procedure the last time.

It's just when he takes the second step in my direction that I freeze. He senses my fear and his smile grows, extending his arms to show the blade I was using to clean my kill.

"Afraid I might hurt him?" he asks eerily, braking our stare. He swings the blade in front of me but I know I'm not the target.

"Please no," I beg quietly, moving slightly to the side. He can't see that I'm approaching or he'll use the knife.

"You don't love him." It's not a question and it flows from gritted teeth—_always angry_.

"You know it's not true. I love him with all my heart and—"

"Liar!" he screams, swinging the blade dangerously close. "You're a liar and a mutt! You want to kill him!" His arm trembles and he clumsily wedges the dirty knife under his knee. My eyes widen and I hold my breath, but then I remember.

The blade is fixed on his leg and he loses his balance, falling to the floor. He hits the back of his head on the counter, but he doesn't seem affected. I'm surprised when he lowers his head and begins to whisper with a small voice that makes me want go and hug him.

"You don't love him. And … and you don't love me." He turns his head to me, and I can see the slightest blue appearing around the blackness.

I move toward him slowly, knowing he can switch back to full rage at any second. I crawl to him to level our eyes and lay my hand gently over his bruised face.

"I love him." My voice is breaking and I know this is the only chance I'll have to calm him. "And I love you too."

"I'm not him." His tears make a clean path on his cheeks.

Trembling, I try to pull him into a hug. At first he resists me, and I know a part of him still wants to hurt me. But that part is getting weak. Each turn he's weaker, and now we're crying together on our kitchen floor. I touch his face, tracing the bruises with my small fingers. "You're a part of him I'm learning to love."

The darkness in his eyes is fading and he won't be here for long. I touch my fingers to his dry lips and feel his hot breath. His pupils are almost the normal size when he says to me, "he loves you."

"And so do you," I reply.

Maybe I said the wrong thing when his eyes harden again. That's always his problem. He hates and loves me too much to deal with it.

I hold his eyes and watch, relieved when he calms again, surrendering to my touch and lying in my lap. He looks up at me with tired eyes.

"You're part of him," I repeat, caressing his sweaty blond curls. "And I love him entirely."

"But I'm not real." I've never seen him so fragile and sensitive. It's the part of him that insists to be like Peeta—my Peeta.

"You are to me," I whisper softly, lowering my head to kiss his lips.

He closes his eyes and I wait. I hope it's over.

He sleeps on my lap for almost an hour, and I feel my legs getting numb, though I don't move. I caress his face, comb his curls. I wait for Peeta to come back to me.

Peeta opens his eyes in alarm, his steady breath accelerating. He looks at me dazedly, sitting up abruptly. One look at the kitchen tells him what happened and he turns to me with clear concern in his eyes—his now pale blue eyes.

"Are you okay? Did I hurt you?" He sees the blood in my hand, but it's not mine.

"I'm fine." I can't suppress the tears when he grabs my hand and arms to search for bruises. "Peeta, I'm fine. But you ..."

He touches his hands to his face and winces, as if it is the first time he notices his cuts and bruises. He also looks down at his leg, the knife still jammed in his prosthesis.

"I … I need to take a bath," he says quietly, and I know he's ashamed. I can't let him feel guilty for what happens when he has his episodes.

"Look at me." I cup his face to make him look into my eyes. He's a completely different person when he has his episodes, but for a reason I can't quite place I hope his other personality is looking back at me too. "You can't control this. It happens and we're dealing with it. It's not your fault."

He nods. I know I didn't convince him, but he accepts my hug.

I help him up and give him a bath, taking care with his bruises and weakened body. After, he's extremely tired and goes immediately to bed, asking me to stay with him.

I don't sleep but spend my day beside him anyway. He's lost in a deep sleep and likely won't wake up until tomorrow.

The sunlight filtering through our window parades along the wall, and I watch the hours passing, one hand protectively on his chest.

Peeta doesn't know I talk to _him_ when he's having his episodes, the price we still pay from his poisoning with tracker jacker venom. He doesn't know the things _he _says or what I tell _him_ back. It's my secret. _Our _secret.

He stirs in his sleep but doesn't wake up. I hum softly, my fingers playing with his light chest hair.

_He_ will be back. I know it. We don't know all the triggers that make him appear, but he'll be here. And when it happens, I'll say what he needs to hear: _"You're real to me."_

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'm**_ sagacious-owl_** on tumblr, come find me.

Special thanks to the beta: **honeylime.**


End file.
